Two Halves of a Whole Survivor
by xXWintersDescent
Summary: Drabble series. FSmuggler/Corso. "Captain Havyn Xylone, at your service. I'm your typical blaster-wielding, sabacc-playing darlin' of a smuggler. Well, except for the fact that I'm an ex-Jedi, currently running for my life with an adorable Mantellian in tow...kriff, the Force sure does have one warped sense of humor."
1. Prologue

**1- Hey There**

Soundtrack: Everybody Loves Me – OneRepublic

* * *

_There are a lot of things you learn in this business, and being scared isn't one of 'em. 'Scared' will get you killed. Guts…now _those_ get you the credits._

_Keep your head on straight, don't let anyone get past your shields, don't be afraid to take a little risk every now and then, and you might make it alright. Some of these crackpots will give you this whole kriffing spiel about luck deciding who makes it and who doesn't. Luck ain't got nothing to do with it. You've gotta be cunning, quick on the draw, and, above all, able to outsmart whatever di'kut decided it would be a good idea to screw with you._

_There's a reason why people come to me for the difficult jobs. I can go toe-to-toe with the worst of 'em and walk away without a scratch. _

That's_ why I'm headed through this Ord Mantell warzone with a cargo hold full of blasters. _That's _why I'm going to fly away with another cargo hold's worth of credits. _

_Because I'm just that good._

Warning lights and klaxons shatter the muddled serenity of the cockpit as another volley of blaster bolts rise to meet the scarred underside of her ship. She smothers the spike of panic that threatens to make her veer the controls sharply to the left. A few deft movements coax the various mechanisms under her control once more, and she simply rides a gust of wind to sail above the cloud cover.

After all…if they can't see her, they can't shoot at her.

_Captain Havyn Xylone at your service. I'm your typical blaster-wielding, sabacc-playing darling of a scoundrel. Well, except for the whole 'ex-Jedi' thing. You know, most rejected Padawans are either not strong enough in the Force, or they run too high a risk of falling to the darkside. _

_I'm both. Never let it be said that I did anything halfway._

Nobody below cares that she is the rejected remnant of a dying breed; that _she_, one of Darth Revan's final descendants, is risking her life above a backwater planet for petty credits. Nobody knows that the dark side follows her family like a shadow, and she alone chose to grin at it and then _run like hell_.

Her life is a constant game of 'catch me if you can', and the score is reset every time she sees those yellow irises looking back at her in the mirror. She's not ashamed to admit that both her grandfather and great-grandfather were reformed Sith, or that it was her own mother's brief fall to the darkside that branded her like this forever. She doesn't hate the spectrum of colors that flit across her world from the darkened corners of musty old cantinas. She takes on maybe a few more Imperial jobs than the average smuggler would - why waste a good thing when you can infiltrate Imperial lines so very _easily_? – but she doesn't apologize for it. Credits are credits, and she is what she is.

_Whatever_ she is.

_Kriffin' hicks are still firing up at me. Not a problem; just gotta time this swerve just right and…dodged it. I'd say they're not paying me enough for flying through this fracking mess, but hey – it's work. And the adrenaline rush? I consider that the bonus._

The ship finally descends to the ground in a plume of exhaust and sparks. She shakes out her jacket and rolls her shoulders agitatedly, her trademark scowl already in place. Already she hates this planet; she hates that she's outgunned and outnumbered on a backwater little world like this, because _this is not where she ends_.

Her client is waiting at the bottom of the loading ramp. Their eyes meet for a second and her senses are screaming _green, green, green_. _Envy. Deceit. Lies. Stay away_.

But she shrugs it off and descends anyway. Credits are credits, after all.

* * *

**A/N: Hey there! I'm clearly a fanfiction author, and I'm here to introduce you to my very cynical, very sly, ex-Jedi of a smuggler, Havyn Xylone. (That's pronounced Hav-INN, not 'haven'. She's very adamant about people knowing that.) **

**Anything else...oh yes. Story is in drabble format, takes place chronologically through the game, follows theme prompts, and yes, you can suggest some if you come up with any. :3 Reviews will earn you an invisible golden sticker.**


	2. Surprise, My Ship's Been Stolen

**2 - Surprise, My Ship's Been Stolen**

* * *

"Well, frack. He hung up."

Havyn narrows her eyes at the now-deactivated holoprojector; trying in vain to fry the device with nothing but the sheer force of her ire alone. No dice. Her eyes snap up to the sky, back to the holoprojector, and then the sky again.

There'll be hell to pay, that much is obvious. Corso can almost swear that she is mentally retracing the trajectory of her stolen ship; silently attempting to pin Skavak with one of those unsettling, 'Mark my words, I _will_ get you' glares even across the parsecs of hyperspace dividing them.

The woman takes a deep breath and just _holds_ it for a moment; shoulders tensed, fists clenched, mouth twisted into a snarl. "Frack," she breathes to herself once more. It's as if the truth has finally dawned on her: everything, her entire _life,_ has just been stolen in the blink of an eye. She let her guard slip, and just as she had feared, some kriffing di'kut saw the hole in her barriers and took the opportunity for everything it was worth.

Her smuggling contacts. Her credits. Her clothes, her belongings, her blasters. Her _home_. All of it is gone, and the only thing she can do it gawk up through the clouds of dust that are still lingering in the air from Skavak's escape.

When your entire ship gets stolen out from under your nose, there's either something wrong with your skills, or there's something wrong with your world.

And there was _nothing_ wrong with her skills.

She looks down at her hands in dismay. This feeling of anxiety, of being...trapped, with no escape...it is seeping into her gut and seems to be spiking with every labored breath she takes. Is this what helplessness feels like?

This wouldn't do. This would _not karking do at all_. She reaches inward - searching, searching - until she can grasp at the cloying bit of emotion that is quietly mewling for her attention. Then she twists, and twists, and twists, until at long last she feels the tight coil snap away into nothingness. Havyn Xylone is many things, but she is _not_ a damsel in distress. She will _not_ allow herself to sit in the dust for much longer. She will _not_ accept defeat.

And she most certainly does _not_ roll over like a helpless kath hound pup and let some schutta fly off with her ship.

"_Frack_. Frack, frack, frack, frackety kriffing _frack_!" she snarls, her voice growing progressively louder until the docking bay is practically echoing with the staccato sounds of her cursing. Suddenly her body is pivoting around, fueled by the smooth, raw energy of her rage. "That di'kut'la moron does _not know what's coming to him_!"

She takes one breath, then another, her shoulders heaving with rage. Quickly she scrambles to find her center, forcing the anger down under her control before it breaks loose for good. Cool, calm…no. The rage still bubbled somewhere beneath the surface, but it was trapped for now; a tool for _her_ to use, instead of the other way around. And then, almost as if someone has flipped a switch, her expression evens out and it fully melts away to give room to that low, sly tone she first spoke with.

She thoughtfully taps an index finger against her lips. "Of course, there's the teensy problem of how to start hunting that little bugger down. And credits. Can't forget those. Oh, and blasters. Clothes...those are important too." Havyn huffs an impatient breath, "You know what, why don't I just make a list of how utterly fracked I am and let's call it a day?"

Even though she _had_ technically been ranting to the man in front of her for the last five minutes, she suddenly looks at him as if she had only just now realized he was standing there.

The hurt and betrayal in his eyes are visible. Faintly, she can hear it echo in the Force as well. It's a muted pulse radiating out from him; a steady beat of forlornness and anxiety silently being broadcast out to an unfeeling world.

"Hey, you," she nods her head at him. Her voice isn't angry, or sly, or smooth. It's low, raspy, and _real_. "About your stolen blaster. I'm sorry. That's a tough break." She shoves her hands into the pockets of her green leatheris jacket and stretches her shoulders in a quick circular movement. The bits of metal adorning her clothes all clink together like wind chimes. "Look, I better go. If that guy really was an undercover agent, I'm gonna have my work cut out for me if I'll be hunting him down anytime soon. I guess I'll see you around, yeah?"

He can't believe his eyes. She'd just taken a colossal hit, and yet she was already limping away to find another way to fight back.

There's no way he can let her walk away empty-handed. He's got to be able to give her something. Something that she could use to get back on her feet. Credits, a blaster, _anything_.

"Wait," he calls out to her. "He took my best blaster, but that's nothing like losing a whole starship. I feel for ya, Captain, I really do. Let me help you out."

She reels around, her face letting a tiny hint of surprise shine through. It twists into an agitated frown and she says slowly, carefully, "I didn't ask for help."

She's wounded – he can tell from the pained look in her narrowed, feral yellow eyes – and it's obvious she would rather die than trust anyone at the moment. But he has to try.

"Come on, don't be like that. Just listen." So he tells her about his boss Viidu anyway; gives her a lead, promises to send a holo ahead, and finally hands her a datapad with a map to FortGarnik.

Havyn's eyes go wide and her grip slackens around the old, smuggled blaster pistol in her hand. Still, she does not protest. He takes the opportunity to remove the blaster from her hand and press the handle of his spare blaster into her palm, once again cutting off the impending protest with an affirmation that they're both in the same boat now.

When he finishes, there is cunning in her eyes again. She wears a hooded smile as she spins the new blaster 'round her index finger and puts it in the holster at her side. "Well, why not?" she shrugs. "Better than the plan I had."

"What plan?"

"Exactly."

This time when she leaves, her gait is loud and echoing. Once again she dominates the room with her sense of purpose.

Because while she was completely lost before, now – oh, _now_ – she has a lead.

As she disappears out the side door in a fading visage of black hair and green leatheris, he can't help but think that he's set something great in motion.

* * *

**A/N: More character detail! And because I have no comment right now, other than, "I'm sure some of you must be wondering about Havyn's rather...eccentric personality," I'll just tell you some more things about her:**

**- Havyn is a failed Jedi Healer's apprentice who grew up on Tython, and was later booted out of the Jedi Order for various reasons...temper, sarcasm, and predisposition to blaster fights included.****She still retains passive empath abilities, which allow her to sense other people's emotions and character. Because she has a hard time defining what she senses, she often just assigns a color to describe each specific feeling. Red is anger, green is greed/envy, blue is sadness, silver is valor, et cetera.**

**- She is a direct descendant of Darth Revan - in this case, Xana Dakari from my SwKOTOR stories - hence the cynicism and Sith-yellow eyes. Even though she admits to an unholy love of credits, she still tries****to make people's lives better as a sort of penance for her darksided ancestry, attempting to prove that she's not like them.**

**- Havyn gets a kick out of appearing to be cunning and enigmatic; at times she can easily outsmart bounty hunters twice her size, other times she will slink off to a dark corner so that no one will see that she's at a loss for ideas. For someone whose ideal is 'sly and mysterious', however, she talks a lot to whoever will listen (which is pretty much always Corso). And I mean she talks a LOT.**

**- She is apparently a fan of Battlestar Galactica, or the SwTOR universe's equivalent, considering how much she likes the word "frack". **

**- Her ship is called _Tempest_, and yes, that is a play on words because her last name sounds like "Cyclone". **

**A big shoutout to writtenrhythm for beta reading this series! She's been a huge help in teaching me how to do detailed, poetic inner monologues. I've not quite mastered it _yet,_ but I'm slowly getting there. :)**

**Review time! How are you guys liking Havyn so far?**


	3. Need Somebody

**3 - Need Somebody**

* * *

Dinner had just finished when she next saw him alone.

She sits enmeshed with the world of durasteel that they called the shipping office, her fingers twined around the railing that cordoned off the upper floor. Her tall form is precariously balanced on the thin edge. She hums thoughtfully to herself, her right leg occasionally kicking out to toe the two stories' worth of empty air that would cripple her if it were to swallow her up.

Havyn knows without looking that he is there, and he is feeling better. His aura is hopeful, amicable. He has purpose now. Dedication. A little fury, too…but that's okay because it just means that they match now.

_Go, team._

"Corso! Feel like having a seat?" she calls over her shoulder to him. Her hand reaches over and pats the railing next to her.

"Sure, Captain. I could do with a rest." He approaches the rail uncertainly and with much fanfare and effort, he carefully hauls himself over the edge one leg at a time. His hand twines around the rail right next to hers. She finds her fingers giving ground, shying away from the unfamiliar warmth. "So, you find yourself a place to stay in town yet?" he asks conversationally. "We're gonna have to close up the warehouse in a couple'a hours."

She tilts her head to the side, peering at him from the small curtain of visibility that her sideswept bangs afford her. "You want me outta here?" Havyn replies. She raises a neat eyebrow in curiosity.

"No, ma'am. Just wanted to make sure you've got a place to go. If not, well, I've been staying over in the workers' barracks here and I can find you an empty bunk, if you'd like."

"I'll be fine. Appreciate the concern, though."

Truth be told, the hotels in the area were already full to bursting with refugees fleeing the Separatist advances. As for the barracks; she worked with Viidu and Corso now, but she wasn't going to insist that they go out of their way to house her. Havyn had met too many people - both the users and the used - to feel comfortable asking favors from anyone. It felt too much like imposing.

She was planning to hike down to the spaceport, find the comfiest bench they had, and just hunker down there for a few hours. Maybe she'd sleep, maybe she wouldn't. It all depended on the level of noise and how tight their security was. It might sound pitiful to others, she'd admit, but it was mere necessity to her.

Still, he didn't need to know that she was only hanging around the freight office to stay warm and dry for a little bit longer. He'd just try to help, and her current situation notwithstanding, more _help_ was the last thing she needed.

No, sir. Havyn Xylone is many things, but she is _not_ a damsel in distress.

* * *

**A/N: Whoo! Hope you all had an awesome Thanksgiving! Seeing as I've finally rolled over and begun to recuperate from the effects of overeating and multiple food-comas - "Bring me Solo and the Wookie, bwahahahaha..." - I figured I'd post another chapter. It kinda fits, considering the opening line. :P Thanks to writtenrhythm for beta reading this!**


	4. Who Are You

**4 - Who Are You**

Soundtrack: Meet Me At the Corner - Red Hot Chili Peppers

* * *

Corso wearily trudged into the cantina, his boots dragging in a trail of muddy rainwater as he tried to knuckle away the dull ache in his eyes. Staring at a computer terminal all day was _not_ his idea of fun. Some people liked watching the lines of code form underneath their fingers; the solemn glow of the screens across the rhythmically beeping equipment. Personally, he preferred the light kickback of a blaster, the rush of adrenaline that came with _action_.

Still...the Captain needed that slicing kit, and so he'd give her a slicing kit.

He ran a hand along the counter and moved toward his favorite seat. It was a shadowy little corner situated at the very end of the bar. Quiet, cozy, and you could see everything going on in the whole place from there. Sometimes it was nice to just sit back and watch the people coming and going; to not pay attention to any one noise, but just enjoy the cheery din of conversation and life and _escape_.

...She was sitting there.

He shrugs and slides into the seat next to her. There are no greetings, no plied questions. The way he sees her look at the world – like she's closed off inside her own mind, her movements saying one thing even as her words say another – makes him think she may not appreciate having a drinking buddy around. So he just signals the waiter droid for a drink and waits for her to decide if she wants his company or not.

Her gaze flicks up towards him once, twice. Her calloused fingers loosen from the glass of ice water she has in her hands and fold around one ragged thumbnail on her left hand.

Finally, she bumps her shoulder against his in greeting. Casually, like they are old friends. "Hey there," she drawls.

"Hey, Captain," he replies easily. "Didn't expect to find you here. Figured you'd be out at Mannet Point by now."

Her smirk twists into a wry grin, and he gets the feeling that something has gone wrong. "Always that eager to be rid of me, huh? Get the big, bad smuggler outta here before she nicks something and pawns it." She nods, tapping a finger against the scratched durasteel surface of the counter. "I gotcha."

"What?! _No_!" Corso is quick to retort. To his credit, he manages to look properly horrified.

Havyn just grins wider. She's gonna stick around for a while, she decides. It's fun to talk to him. "Relax, Corso. I'm kidding," she says, absentmindedly chipping away at the frost on her glass.

"…Alright then," is all he can think to say, because she's smiling this strange, hooded smile; like she's getting a kick out of a punchline only she knows about. "Didn't want you getting the wrong idea. We really couldn't do this without you, Captain."

"Thanks. But you know, you don't have to call me 'Captain'," she edges. "That's just what I have my clients call me when I want to make a quick transaction. 'Hi Captain; here's your credits, Captain; goodbye, Captain.' I figure if we'll be working together for a while, it's best you start using my name."

He thinks back to the day they met and tries to recall the name on the shipping manifest. "Haven, wasn't it?" he asks conversationally.

"Have-INN," she corrects him pointedly. "_Havyn_. Not 'Haven'. Luckily, my parents weren't _that_ big on irony, or else I'd have to get an alias."

" _Havyn, _then. It suits you," he says honestly, his eyes meeting hers for the first time that evening.

A minute passes, and another. For a while, they are content to just slouch over their drinks and listen to the pleasant cacophony of conversation over the rusty cantina music. It's a nice change from the way they've been acting the past week, she decides. Suddenly they aren't two fugitives deftly skirting around the other with meaningless pleasantries, but two teammates contented to share a moment of peace together.

She nudges him again. "Hey. You want to know something?"

Corso smiles, and this time it's genuine. He gently returns the nudge, taking care not to jostle her too much. "Sure, let's hear it."

For a while longer she is silent. She chews on her lip in indecision, watching as her cold, aching hands swill the melting ice around inside the glass. The gears are turning in her mind, and he knows to give her time to think.

"I kinda wish you were coming with me to Mannet Point," she admits, her smooth tone glossing over the hesitancy in her voice. "Viidu…told me about your parents. About how they were killed by Separatists." Her eyelashes rest against her cheeks for an instant, but then she's holding his gaze and her eyes are practically flashing. "I think he's wrong to keep you away from the fight. If you really want to be in it, then that's your deal. Your decision, I mean.. And...look, I just figured that if I was in your shoes, I'd be _really_ kriffing mad. I'd want to take names, see some justice done. I'd at least want somebody to give me the _choice_. So if you really want to go, just give me the word. I'll get you over there."

"I appreciate the thought, Captain," he replies at length. "Much as I want to go, though, this isn't my fight. I got a job to do here, and I don't reckon it would be very fair to you if I abandoned it just to play vigilante."

"Fair enough," Havyn nods. "Just wanted to put that out there."

"I know." He turns and looks at her, more grave than she's ever seen him look before. "Captain, if you don't mind me asking...are you orphaned, too?"

Her brow furrows in confusion. "Why would you ask _that_?"

"I dunno; most smugglers usually are. I just figured you were doing me a favor because you were in a similar situation, is all."

Havyn looks down at her glass again, smiling a slow, sad smile. "No, actually. A lot of people expect smugglers to have this big, tragic backstory. Not really true. I got a mom, a dad, and two brothers back home. All alive and kicking."

Corso leans forward in his seat, linking his fingers together. Suddenly he wants to know more about this mysterious enigma of a person. He can see the rare flicker in her barriers and suddenly he's grasping at wisps of conversation, trying to get a picture of the woman who just may be saving his life.

"Let me guess," he drawls. "Nar Shaddaa."

"Nope again. I'm from Tython," she smirks. He knows that she's onto his little game, because ever-so-subtly, she starts to gather her things and shift her jacket back onto her shoulders.

"The Jedi homeworld." He swivels around to catch her gaze. He's stalling her now, and neither of them knows why.

"One and the same," she replies, still facing him even as she makes her way to the door. "I'm not a Jedi, just so you know."

"So...what are you?" he dares to ask.

It doesn't matter. She's almost out of the cantina now, grinning like a Cheshire cat even as the wind begins to ripple at the edges of her jacket. "Tell you what. We survive this fracked-up mess, and maybe one day I'll tell you," she shoots back with a tilt of her chin.

He raises his glass to her, "I'll hold you to that, Captain."

* * *

**A/N: And that was the obligatory discussion about pasts! :D Well, except for Havyn failing to mention that she's Sith-spawn. Tsk, tsk. **

**This was also basically my reaction to what Viidu said before the Mannet Point quests...it's like, "okay, I understand why you won't let him go, but it should still be his choice. And, y'know, considering that you're aware I'm going to be surrounded a hundred-to-one, it'd probably be in your best interests to send along some BACKUP..." Just saying.**

**So anyway, how do you think things are going to go down when Havyn finally reveals that she's a descendant of Revan? Seeing as Separatists work for the Imperials, the Imperials work for the Sith, Revan is historically the most famous Sith ever, and Separatists killed his family? I, personally, think that...**

***spoiler fairy floats in with a shotgun***

**...never mind.**

**Thanks as always to writtenrhythm for beta reading this! :D**

**Merry *almost* Christmas, you guys! Now that gift shopping and work things and studying before winter break haven't kicked the shizz out of my writing time, prepare to see some more chapters! More specifically, a bonus one just for the holidays, and then the obligatory 'Happy Yuletime' chapter. Cheers!**


	5. Luck

**Luck**

Soundtrack: Soldier – Gavin DeGraw

**_Havyn's POV_**

* * *

_True allies are like those credit chips you find dropped on the ground. They turn up when you least expect them, and frack if they don't appear in the weirdest places…but even if you don't think you need one, you're pretty kriffin' glad when you find it._

"This is a Sorusuub SSK blaster. It's got an adjustable sight and a hair trigger. I call it Flashy," he explains, holding out the heavily-modded weapon. "It's the first blaster I ever owned, and I want you to have it."

My gaze won't stop flicking to the proffered firearm, and I hate it. The action is too...transparent.

My fingers are already twitching expectantly, loosening around the well-worn grip of the rusty holdout blaster I've used for years. _Traitor_. With an all-too-familiar surge of willpower, I force myself to stand still and look at the options.

On the one hand: free blaster. On the other hand...no.

That's not my blaster. It's _not my blaster_. I didn't earn it, didn't pay for it with my credits, didn't even win it in my own fight. It's got things - indefinable, ambiguous things like _meaning_ and _sentiment_ and _memories_ - written all over it, and to take it would mean...I don't know what it would mean. All I know is that it would give him a foothold, and I don't want that.

Rule number one: I'll work with you, fight alongside you. I'll give you my opinions whether you want them or not. I'll be your greatest ally or your worst nightmare. But I'm _not_ going to be your friend.

"Why? I'm doing fine; you don't have to give me anything," I retort, my tone smoothing over the skepticism in the inquiry. " 'Sides, I already have a blaster. Didn't exactly down all those Seps by pointing a stick at them and shouting 'pew, pew, pew', did I?"

It's easy to see right through this guy. So utterly _kriffing_ easy that I'm actually having too much fun to be cynical. I'm talking about the lead on Skavak, the well-paying work, the weird questions at the cantina. All of it took me by surprise for about four seconds. Maybe five, if I really care to be generous.

I don't.

I've got it all figured out. It's the classic bait-and-trap; act the easygoing nice guy, make the poor, emotion-wrought girl go all starry-eyed for her benevolent hero, and the rest is history. Forget it. I've been around the galaxy too many times to fall for that. And really, what else could he be doing? This is Ord Mantell.

_Nobody_ is this nice on Ord Mantell.

"Well, I'd like if you'd take it anyway. It'd help me rest a lot easier, knowing that you're ready for anything," he insists. Then, with a little quirk of the lips, he actually spins the blaster around his finger and gently places it, handle-first, into my palm.

The sarcastic retort dies on the tip of my tongue.

It's polished. He actually _polished_ it. I can tell, because there's no way the durasteel on a used blaster catches the sunlight and shines the way this one does. I turn it over in my hands, looking over the mechanisms. It's beautiful; each part separately cleaned until it shone, its barrel replete with seamlessly-integrated mods, the way the handle fits into my palm so comfortably...

"I can't," I tell him quickly, shoving the blaster back at him. "Look, it's nice. Really nice. Frack if that isn't the nicest firearm anyone's ever given me. But that's just it; I can't just let you give that to me." My gaze alights on his eyes and stays there, stone-cold and never yielding. "I don't owe anything to anyone else, and I like to keep it that way."

For the first time since they've met, he actually seems to lose patience with me. "Captain, I don't know what kinda guy you're used to having around, but I was raised a gentleman. And a gentleman does not let a lady go out there and fight a horde of Separatists, on his behalf, without a good blaster by her side. You don't owe me anything for this." He holds out the blaster again, emphatically, and I know he's not going to stop until I accept it.

I'm stunned. For some reason, all that comes out of my mouth is, "...I don't know whether to be pleasantly surprised about this or insulted about you trashing my old holdout blaster. I don't care how good you are at building custom firearms; this ol' thing has got me through some tough scraps."

He lets out a patient sigh and holds out a hand. "Can I see it?"

I give him the weapon, following as he leads me over to a modification bench in the corner. He angles to the side so that I can watch him take apart the holdout blaster, hands expertly arraying the various components out on the durasteel surface for me too see. "Just like I thought," his murmur drifts through the air, "It's seen a lot of wear. Trigger's getting a bit sticky, lots of ground-in residue on the inside of the barrel, never mind that the firing mechanism is rusty and corroded. This thing's a miniature explosion waiting to happen. And, you know, I'd prefer it didn't blow up in your hand while you're surrounded a hundred-to-one without a backup weapon."

Still, I continue to watch in silence as he takes apart Flashy for the sake of comparison; showing me what each upgrade does to improve the safety and effectiveness of each shot. The one-sided conversation quickly degenerates into recitations of blaster lingo and technical terms patiently drawled out in a twangy accent, and eventually all I can think is _yeah, I owe him for sure now_.

Strangely enough, I'm okay with that.

...He owes me too, after all.

Before I know it, the blaster is pieced back together and he's _still_ holding it out to me. "So..._now_ will you take it?" he asks again.

"All right. Fine, you win," I grin, throwing my hands into the air in mock exasperation.

He catches one and presses the firearm into my palm with both hands, folding my fingers around the polished barrel like they were always meant to be there.

It was just a gesture borne out of good-natured teasing. It didn't mean anything. And somewhere deep down, I knew that.

It didn't matter. I've never had my hand held. Not even in jest. At least...not since my head was filled with the color spectrums of beautiful, glorious life; peaceful dreams of healing mists _sinking deep down into the icy waters of Tythos River and freezing there in yellow pools of hate._

_Not my friend, not my friend, not my friend._

The lightheartedness of the moment is broken then. We both sense the icy chill seep into the air, my piercing stare dragging the transgression out into the light and telling him _this is not okay_ the only way I know how.

I can hear the chains on my jacket clinking like windchimes as I recoil, delivering my hand and my weapon into freedom.

"Thanks for this. I'll make good use of it," I drawl, my voice back to its' smooth, rolling monotone.

"Right. Glad you like it," he edges, his hand flying to cover the back of his neck self-consciously. "Good luck out there, Captain."

I am merciless, however, and don't stop pinning him with that accusing stare even after he manages a friendly, apologetic grin. My lips curl into a semblance of a smile, though it doesn't quite reach my narrowed eyes.

"I don't need luck. I have blasters."

* * *

**A/N: Shameless Mass Effect 3 reference for the win. **

**YEAHHHH KROGANS :3**

**Anyway, looks like Hav's ice barrier is starting to break up a bit. Which is good. I don't like writing her when she's all distant like this. She acts all cold, but really she's a sweetheart...just wait until I introduce a surprise person three chapters from now and you'll see what I mean.**

**Question time! How long do you think it will take Havyn to be best buds with Corso? When (what mission) do you think it'll be? Who is this surprise new person I have in store for you readers? Should I keep doing the first-person POV every now and then? What do you like or not like about the story so far?**

**Thank you to writtenrhythm for beta reading this chapter, and you guys have a good night!**


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